


i solemnly swear

by badgerspride



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Grief/Mourning, Loss, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 19:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badgerspride/pseuds/badgerspride
Summary: And maybe in those memories, Fred never truly left him. A story about grief, loss and the strength to rebuild and create some mischief along the way. George-centric. Post DH.





	i solemnly swear

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: I was going to name this ‘Mischief Managed’, but felt that maybe (even though I haven’t looked and can’t recall one in my memory) a few George post-war fics had been named that. Anyways, enjoy!

** mischief managed. **

* * *

_“You - you alone will have the stars as no one else has them...In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night...You - only you - will have stars that can laugh.”_

― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

He’s sitting out in the garden, not that he remembers how he got there.

He’s five firewhiskeys in, and the Christmas celebration has just begun.

It’s easier that way. It’s easier to numb pain than feel it.

Everyone acts like they understand how he feels. As if they just know what he’s going through, because of course they do! They’ve lost him, too.

Just not the same way.

George Weasley rubs his face, downing the last of his drink, numbly wondering when he’d drank the majority of it — when he’d drank the four prior, but it’s all a blur of colors and motions, all that truly mean _nothing_ to him.

Depression.

That’s what they’re calling it. He’s just depressed. He’s lost someone, it’s natural. He’s human.

He wished he’d grabbed the bottle on his way out the door, but alas, if he wanted more, he’d have to get up and he feels so heavy. Ironic, considering he’s lost half of himself.

Fred and George. Forge and Gred. Freddie and Georgie. The second born, after two and half minutes of agony, according to Molly Weasley, and the last one to die. Who was he without Fred? Without Fred, there was no one he could clean the mess up from. Without Fred, there was no one who truly understood him.

George was the charismatic one. The one who got away with being more quiet, more down to earth. It was Fred who was the life of the party, not him. He was the brain, Fred was the muscle. Two halves a whole, but now, he was the other half. The half that needed the push to get the job done. The half that wouldn’t survive without it’s piece of the puzzle.

_“It’s okay to need help, George. We’re here for you,” _Ron had said one day, just a few months after the battle. 

They’d been sitting at the Leaky Cauldron, drinks between them, and no hope for Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes to be reopened. Ron, who was studying to be an auror, doing something with his life, had called upon George. 

It was weird. 

The brothers had never been close, because Ron always had Harry and Hermione, he’d always had Fred and sometimes Ginny, but it must’ve been desperate to make Ron, the one with the emotion limit of a teaspoon, to write to him.

_“Let us help you. Ginny, me, Charlie, Bill, hell, even Percy wants to help you! I know it’s hard,” _Ron had continued, his words getting caught in his throat, his eyes bright with tears dying to be shed, and he covered his face for a moment, composing himself. George had looked away toward the fire, feeling nothing. He’d cried too much to cry anymore. His body desperately wanted the release, though. He wanted to cry in the night. He wanted to open all the windows and scream, smash everything, make himself feel something but this overwhelming sense of despair.

He felt helpless. Like he was drowning, and there was something just above him, just out of his reach, tempting him to come up for air. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t. This feeling was endless, and it weighed him down like an anchor.

_“The joke shop was your dream,” _he’d said after a moment, his eyes rimmed red and voice smaller than before, as if all his strength was being used to say this. _“Don’t let it go to waste. After all, we need a laugh right now. Don’t you think?”_

**.**

**.**

**.**

The thing about having five firewhiskeys is that the world becomes a kaleidoscope of colors. Everything is blurred into one forgettable, but colorful, moment. Everything is heightened; pain, noises, emotions. Grief would take anesthesia, but it wasn’t permanent. You couldn’t out run your own mind, after all.

Stumbling through The Burrow, he was in search for another round of Firewhiskey when Percy caught him. He’d fallen, not that he’d remembered, and being righted by his older, pompous brother, made him feel less than enthused. 

“You alright, George?” Percy asked, but George glared at him, shoving him aside.

Maybe it wasn’t fair to resent Percy. George hadn’t been there when it happened, he had. Percy had been there, had distracted Fred.

It was _his_ fault! His!

The lines blurred easily, though. Was it Percy’s? Or was it George’s for not being there?

_“He died laughing.”_

There had been the smile on his face in that box, George had seen the proof. Came into the world with a smile, left with one, too. 

“George,” Percy tried, reaching for his younger brother. Somehow in his drunken state, he evaded him with little effort. It was, after all, their gift. Prefect Percy. Percy the tattletale. The twins had spent their whole lives evaded him, and their whole lives causing mischief just under his pratty, pompous nose.

It should’ve been him.

That thought haunted him in it’s callousness, but also in its pure resentment. He, after all, had turned their back on them. On their parents. On their mother.

_“Percy s-slammed the door in my face, Arthur!” _she’d wailed in bed, unknowingly that her two sons had invented extendable ears and could hear everything. After that, though, they’d turned them off, unwilling to eavesdrop anymore.

If Percy had stayed away, Fred would be here. If Percy wasn’t such a prat, Fred would be here.

Fred. Would. Be. Here.

“George, please,” Percy was at his side again, taking the bottle away.

“Leave me alone, Percy, you pompous little pimple!” he’d snarled, his words slurred.

Percy, who was used to insults from all his siblings, held an indifferent expression, but his eyes betrayed him, even for a moment.

“George…”

Shoving his older brother, Percy Weasley stumbled back, catching himself before he crashed. 

“It’s your bloody fault! Don’t you _dare_ try and console me!”

Unbeknownst to George, the party seemed to freeze. In his world, it was just him and Percy, and everything else was dark, pitch black noise that didn’t really exist.

“_You’re the reason he’s dead!_” he spat out, his voice low and menacing and so un-George. It was like a slap, even with the wireless playing cheerful Christmas tunes and with the guests, too far away and unaware of this particular battle, laughing and carrying on, it still sounded like a loud spark. He may as well of sent the message in a Wheezes firework.

The look on Percy’s face would never be erased, no matter how many firewhiskeys he drank, but all the same, he yanked the bottle from his brother’s hand, the shook of George’s outburst making him unable to keep hold of the neck.

“George!” their father said, his eyes dangerous and face red as he came between them. “That’s enough.”

George turned, too drunk and heartbroken to care. “Whatever.”

**oOo**

The New Year came and went, and just like that, George Weasley found himself in February of 1999, a letter from his old quidditch captain, Oliver Wood, in his hand. He looked at it blankly, the messenger owl hooting at him, nipping his hand, hoping for something for his troubles. Realizing he wasn’t getting anything, it gave an angry screech and left through the window.

George turned the letter in his hands over and over again, as if he didn’t know what exactly it was till he sighed and opened it.

_George,_

The loop of Oliver’s handwriting brought him back to the days of angry letters they’d be sent about pranks and detentions, about how all this foolishness was going to cost the team the cup! He found a shadow of a smile tugging at his lips, thinking of a typical Fred Weasley response that’d have Oliver going mad.

_“He’s going to find himself in the loony bin one of these days,”_ Fred how vowed cheerfully, picking up a red feathered quill, his mind racing with ideas for their next prank.

The memory of it almost broke him, but somehow, he found himself reading on.

_First off, my condolences, even though I know you hate them. I heard of Fred’s death, and I would’ve sent them sooner, but I’m sure you understand that I just couldn’t. You and Fred meant so much to me, and knowing one is gone, words can’t even describe that._

_But enough about me. I hope you’re well. Even if it’s as well as you can be. You’ve been on my mind, you and your family._

_I’m writing to tell you that after running into Alicia, she convinced me to have a reunion. It’d be good, since I’ve wanted to see you, Potter, even Johnson and Bell. It’s not like we had the time to catch up the last time we all came to one place. But after being swindled into a party, it’s going to be at my flat around six o’clock the 19th of February._

_George, I hope you come, but if you don’t, no hard feelings._

_Cheers,_

_Oliver_

He reread it, not truly getting it until the thirteenth time, then he sighed, letting it float on the kitchen table.

_“You should go, Gred,” _he could hear Fred say. The voice was clear as day and his head shot up, looking for his twin.

Fred would never be a ghost. He’d determined that after the battle, when he’d been searching for him. He had done it against hope, knowing the result before the search had begun. Hadn’t they asked the ghosts how ghosts were made?

_When one fears death and can’t move on._

Fred Weasley feared nothing, George knew that for a fact.

_“Johnson’ll be there,” _the voice of his late brother egged on. _“And we all know you love her.”_

George shook his head, placing a hand on his forehead, he wondered briefly if he was going mad.

_“C’mon, mate. I hate seeing you mope around, where’s the cheer? Where’s the thrill and adventure? Where the hell is my bloody sunlight, you can’t even see a blasted thing in here, can you, you tosser?” _

George blinked, looking around his apartment as if seeing if for the first time.

It was dark and dreary, save for the one window opened to let in the owl. It was dusty, neglected, and dishes were piled in sinks and corners, left forgotten save for the ones he used constantly.

Those dishes at the bottom of the sink had been there since before they went into hiding. _“I’m not a maid, they’ll be done in time,” _Fred had said when their mother commented on them, a bag in hand as they apparated to safety.

He had had all the time in the world then, George thought briefly, opening the curtains.

It was so bright out…

_“That’s my Gred!” _

“Oh Forge,” he croaked out, suddenly feeling a wetness on his face and he touched his cheeks, clamping his wet fingers into a fist, as if holding on to this feeling.

_“Let go, mate.”_

And he tried. Unclenching his fingers, he allowed himself to weep for everything; Fred, himself, their parents, his siblings, Harry, the shop, their dreams, their sodding plans. Everything came out, until, suddenly, he felt different.

Not okay. Not whole, or even fine, but less weighted.

Picking up a stray piece of tattered parchment, he began to write.

**oOo**

“You’ve gone mad, eh, Weasley,” Lee Jordan teased, heaving a box from the stockroom.

“Only slightly,” George admitted, waving his wand to clear out more cobwebs. 

When he’d first walked in, he’d almost shattered. It’d been boarded up, dark and dank, so unlike before.

People had scavenged what they could, leaving behind junk, but it didn’t matter. Fred and George had been smart, and everything they had had was inside his mind, in good hiding under the floorboards of their old bedroom, and in tiny ring he wore.

Both he and Fred had bought the ostentatious objects when they’d made so much profit, they had promptly called themselves Millionaires. They weren’t, but by gosh had they felt like it. They’d bought top shelf firewhiskey, went to the finest place they could find to eat, and had gotten dragonskin jackets.

_“Oi George, look at this!” _Fred had said gleefully, looking in a shop window, beckoning for his brother to join him. George peered in with excitement as Fred had pointed to them. They were rings, the only two, identical but somehow different, with ruby stones and lions encrusted in the gold band. One had a minor chip and the other was a touch taller at the tip, and they’d grinned, purchasing them on the spot.

_“With all that’s happening, we need a plan, don’t you think?” _George had asked. Potterwatch had been at its high, and everything was becoming far too dangerous. Both brothers shared a look, knowing that soon, they wouldn’t even owl their merchandise anymore. The risk was too great, and the price was too heavy to tempt.

_“If something happens, they’ll be safe,” _George said, charming the rings, copying their recipes inside the stone.

“It’s going to take a lot of time,” Lee whistled.

“Then let’s hope we have it,” said George, waving his wand again, the boards soaring off the windows, sunlight glittering from the dusty, scratched floor. “I, for one, haven’t a minute to spare!” 

**oOo**

Mrs Weasley let out a gasp, clamping a hand over her mouth when she saw the shop.

It somehow looked better than the original, and his siblings all looked in awe as he, Lee and Ron stopped, looking their way.

“George, it’s beautiful,” his mother breathed, grabbing him and kissing his forehead. “I’m so proud of you.”

George felt his throat burn and he coughed. “It’s far from finished, but Ron and Lee’s help has been more than enough.”

Ginny grinned, playing with a rogue pygmy puff, “It’s brilliant!”

He smiled at his kid sister, so young and so far removed from the innocent, annoying ten year old she’d once been. Hugging her, she laughed, struggling against him. “When’ve you become such a sap?” she said, muffled against his chest.

“Oh shut up, _Ginevra_!” he teased.

In this moment, he couldn’t deny the truth: it felt bloody good to be alive.

Laughing, he clamped Ginny and Ron on the back and said, “This place is going to be magnificent.” And with a flourish, he moved to get back to work. Between the merchandise, the remaking of shelves and displays, there was so much left to be done.

Everyone pitched in. His mother worked tirelessly cleaning the grime, the debris and everything else left behind when Diagon Alley had fallen. His father rebuilt shelves and cases, making them shine and gleam with pride. Bill, Charlie and Fleur had even shown up, and Fleur, who had a surprising talent in sewing spells, remade tattered and torn work robes, curtains and ceiling banners.

By the time Percy had arrived, all that they could do that day was almost done. When he entered, it was hesitant. To an untrained eye, it would have looked cool and composed, but George knew better. He could read Percy Weasley like a book, and always knew his weakest spots to hit. But now, he watched, eyes narrowed as his brother came in, removing his cloak and travel hat to marvel around, not only the progress, but the shop itself.

He’d never been to their shop in its prime, and the look on his face showed all the regret he couldn’t mask. He looked at it all with agony, as if imagining its former glory. Looking around, it was clear he could see Fred everywhere.

When their eyes met, Percy broke away, unable to stand it. As he tugged his cloak on, George moved to him, yanking him harshly and before Percy knew it, George was hugging him and they were crying together.

_Welcome home, Percy._

**oOo**

He stood outside Oliver’s door, a bottle of pumpkin juice in hand, not daring anymore firewhiskey for the time being. As he waited, he heard a pop and turned, seeing Angelina touch her curls, unaware of her audience. 

“Okay, keys, money, bag — good,” she said, going through her mental checklist, making sure once again she had everything. George smiled. She was ever the perfectionist.

“Oh! George, you scared me!” she squeaked, laughing at herself. Then, suddenly, they were hugging. “I’ve missed you! How-” she paused, her body stiff as the question unasked hung, as if she were unsure if she were allowed to ask. But then, pulling away, she searched his face. “Have you been okay?”

His breath caught, but he still nodded. “I’m better.”

Angelina gave him a sad smile. “I heard from a little birdie that you’ve been working on the shop.”

“Did that little birdie had dreads and go by the name of Lee?” he asked teasingly and Angelina smiled, shrugging in faux innocence. 

“Possible. I never get birds names, you know I have a shit memory.”

He laughed. “Yet somehow you were one of the only few that could tell me and Fred apart!”

She gave a small, sad smile, “Well, one was more obnoxious than the other!”

Then, as if the air was being forced from her lungs, she let out a noise. “I -“

“He was obnoxious. And he snored up a storm,” George said, happy to have this moment. “It was bloody dreadful being his roommate, thank Merlin for silencing charms.”

Angelina laughed. It was full and loud, and he smiled, laughing too. He hadn’t remembered the last time he’d laughed so hard.

“He was so mad the day he found out, too! Claiming up and down that he never snored, and then spelled my bed.”

“His poor, poor ego,” Angelina cooed sympathetically, laughing and wiping her eyes. “He always was the more sensitive twin.”

George choked a bit, clearing his throat. “Yeah. He could be.”

The two shared a look, their smiles never leaving, even when she finally said, “I miss him.”

George nodded. “Yeah. Me, too.”

She took his hand then, finally getting the nerve, and pushing the door opened they went inside. Soon, he, too, was caught up in the laughter of old, long forgotten stories. In his mind’s eye, he could see Fred, winking and joining in from the window. When George blinked, looking again, he saw himself. One ear, short hair, and the face that wasn’t so narrow as his brother’s. Different, but the same. Twins.

Smiling, he drank his pumpkin juice, eagerly adding to the story of Harry’s first quidditch match, thumping the black hair boy on the back. “Nothing’ll ever beat that rogue bludger, it was even too much for me at times!”

“You were the better beater,” Oliver said, cheersing him as he took a sip of his drink.

“Too right,” Alicia agreed, picking up another tiny finger sandwich. “You saved me in my third game, when that prat, Flint, nearly took my head off with that illegal bludger. I still, to this day, can’t believe he yanked the sodding bat out of that gorilla’s hand and aimed it at me!” Shaking her head, she licked a bit of sauce from her fingers. “Such a disgraceful bunch of sore losers, even Wood handled loss better.”

“Oi!” protested her former captain, ears red.

“Yeah, Licia,” Angelina said, whacking her friends arm. “Don’t you remember? Oliver’s passionate!”

The two shrieked with laughter, and Wood turned a bright shade of red. “Oi! Oi! Oi!” he hollered at them, and soon, George, Katie and Harry were joined in their laughter.

Angelina wiped her eyes. “Poor Puddlemere, they didn’t even know what they were doing scouting you.”

“The best damn captain, no marbles, no sense of when to quit, three cheers for Wood!” Alicia shouted, raising her glass and downing it before the table had a chance to raise a glass.

“Alright, alright!” said Oliver, his face burning. “I’ve calmed down some, I’ll admit, but I still think the Firebolt incident was unjust.”

“Here, here!” agreed Harry, though George could sense his friend was egging on his former captain. What they knew now, he figured Harry knew McGonagall had been right, to some degree, to be as cautious as she had been.

“A toast to Professor M for almost causing us to lose the cup,” Alicia said, raising her cup and clinking it with Wood’s untouched cup and Angelina’s raised one.

“And to the good old days,” Angelina added, “may we never forget them.”

George wondered if she’d meant to look at him as she said that, but clinked glasses with her all the same.

“And to friends, gone and yet to be had,” Harry added.

“And to Gryffindor, and to the ghost of Oliver’s lectures past,” added Katie Bell, giggling at Wood’s expense, especially when the five of them clinked glasses.

“You five,” muttered Wood, pouring himself another drink. “I should make you do laps around the apartment.”

George grinned, “And here you said you’ve calmed down some. What a liar, eh,” he said, nudging Harry who nodded in agreement.

Clinking their glasses together again, for no verbal reason, George though for a moment about Fred and what he’d say if he were here, and he smiles. Angelina, when they catch eyes moments later, is smiling too, as if she knows. And maybe she does. Maybe everyone at this table knows, and maybe they’re all thinking about Fred and what’d he’d say and do, and maybe they’re all thinking he’s here. And maybe, in their collective thoughts, for a brief moment, he’s alive.

**oOo**

“Oi, wake up, Weasley!” says Lee, yanking the covers off his best friend, a pair of cymbals banging like mad by his bed, and George shoots up, groggy and confused.

“Wasamatter?” he gets out, trying to disentangle himself from the bed, but sleep had had a firm grip on him. In truth, it’s best he’s slept in over a year, long before Dumbledore had died.

“Nothing, just your Grand Reopening!” Lee says, tossing him some mismatched clothes and a dirty cloak.

George hops up at that, throwing everything back to the floor and flinging open the wardrobe. “Good Godric, did I oversleep?”

“Nope,” Lee laughs. “It’s three am, but c’mon, we have something to show you!”

George glares at his friend and Lee bounces up and down, waving his hands wildly. “Never mind that, you old fool! Get dressed, times wasting!”

**.**

**.**

**.**

They’re standing on High Street. They, being him and Lee, his family, Harry and surprisingly, Angelina. The later are all smiling at the pair, and he is highly suspicious. He, the now sole king of pranks, can see that something is coming.

“Now,” Lee says sternly, getting in front of his best friend and needlessly fixing his tie. “Close your eyes.” 

George stands there, eyes remaining open and Lee let’s out a haughty breath. “George!”

Sighing through his nose, George obliges and keeps his ears wide open. Now would be the perfect time for revenge, and he refuses to be outwitted by something so stupid and trusting!

“Now, for good measure,” Lee says and suddenly, George feels a cloth he can’t take off being tied around his eyes. “Can’t trust you as far as we can throw you.”

Lee pushes him from behind, and George can hear the excited whispers and giggles of his loved ones, and he’s throwing glares at all of them behind the fabric. Traitors! He loves them for it, too.

“Now, George Weasley, we, on behalf of Weasley Central, present the new and much greatly improved,” Lee boomed, taking the blind fold off for emphasis, “Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes!”

Confetti appears to be falling from the ceiling Hermione had charmed, fireworks with the WWW logo go off in, what looks like a fair distance, and thanks to Charlie, enchanted, glass dragons circle and cry above.

The sight is beautiful. It takes his breath away, and his eyes greedily take it all in. The shelves, filled to the brim with their products. He sees the photo of him and Fred behind the till, shaking each others hands, but giving one another rabbit ’s ears and laughing. Oh, how he could cry just looking at it all.

Molly Weasley is beside him, rubbing his back. “He’d be so proud of you, George,” she says, tears falling down her face as the two hug one another.

Angelina is smiling, her face wet with tears she’s shedding as she looks around, remembering the first time she and Alicia came in, just after the grand opening. That day, after seeing it all, she’d flung her arms around George’s neck and nearly kissed him, but she doubted he knew of that emotion. _“I can’t believe this! How stupid of me, too! You and Fred always did the impossible, after all!”_

“Now,” Hermione said, handing him a stack of parchment, her face all business, despite the joy in her eyes. Ever the workaholic she was! “I took the liberty of going through your office. It was a disaster, and I doubt that was from scavengers, either!” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, and she’d be right. Fred and George were more hurricane than human duo, even in a working environment that required responsibility. 

“But no matter,” she continued, piling more parchment in his hands. “I’ve done most of the accounting, but I suggest hiring one. You were getting a bit ripped off here and there, and I negotiated your rent, considering you were the last to clear out, it was the least they could do for loyalty and service. And, I also organized everything by color, order, size and rank.”

George could’ve kissed her. “Hermione, you really are a life saver,” he said, dropping the papers and giving her a hug, ignoring the shriek and wail of her work scattering at their ankles. He picked her up, twirling her and laughing. After all, Hermione Granger organizing _and_ helping out a joke shop bent on breaking Hogwarts rules? A true sight for sore eyes if he’d ever seen one!

**.**

**.**

**.**

In the hours before, George brought Hermione’s parchment to the office, noting it’s lack of chaos that had always been about when it was him and Fred, and he sighed, looking out the window at the view of High Street.

The first time they’d looked out that window, back when they were seventeen and naive, the world had been at their feet. Now, he longed for a familiar face to give him a thumbs up, a nod — any sign, to let him know this was right.

Sighing, he pulled back, rubbing his face. Despite the early rise, he didn’t feel exhausted. He felt alert, like a cornered animal, waiting for it’s predators to attack.

As he placed the parchment on his desk, he froze. His eye caught something so small, so insignificant that if he'd been blinking, he’d have missed it.

Reaching out, he picked up the crumbled bit of parchment Hermione must’ve unearthed, but didn’t have the heart to toss out. Taking it between his shaky fingers, he looked at Fred’s scrawl, one from their first year, when his handwriting was more Hippogriff scratch than English.

_Mischief managed._

Smiling, he placed the papers down, disorganizing them yet again, as he folded the paper and tucked it into his chest pocket.

**.**

**.**

**.**

“There’s already people lined up,” Harry commented from the window, impressed at the crowd. From the window, George could hear some mild chanting and he smiled, tears burning his eyes. It was a true test to their work, that sound of Weasley! going over and over again. 

“Are you ready?” Angelina asked him, brushing his hand with hers and he grasped it.

“As I’ll ever be, Johnson,” he vowed, and with that, he flicked his wand and let the stampede begin.


End file.
